the physics of displacement
by asprosdrakos
Summary: Alta'ir/Malik: post-game, prior relationship of some sort assumed, pretty much a PWP seriously . No real spoilers, because there's not enough semblance of a plot for any.


the physics of displacement

the physics of displacement

--

Even now, Malik managed to surprise him, to catch him unprepared and slip under a guard he had thought near perfect.

He has spent years and more perfecting his focus, perfecting the ability to read motion, movement, and intent before action. An assassin is taught and trained to understand what people say beneath and between their words, to see what secrets the slightest twitch of the fingers or tilt of the head betray. He has had time now to understand Malik, to comprehend and synchronize with the movements of the other man, to memorize the lean edges of muscles and the healed but tattered edges of an arm that once-was, disconcerting now in its absence but still part of the man. Malik was not less for its loss, somehow, but more. Sharpened by it, as one removes the excess from the edge of a sword to hone it. He has learned the patterns of the man's body and the sounds and speech he makes, the reactions he can encourage or quell. Beyond that, he _knows_ Malik; as a fellow assassin, a brother of the Creed.

Of course, no incarnation of God followed by any in the Holy Land, be they Crusader or Saracen, would call what they are doing now _brotherly_.

"Your mind is elsewhere, Alta'ir." The words were heavy with proximity, Malik's mouth so close to his ear that he could feel the imprint of the words the man speaks.

"I wonder what could be so occupying your thoughts," the other man continued, pausing to bite, ever so gently, at Alta'ir's ear, the short distance making it an easy target. Trapped beneath the other man, there were few places for Alta'ir to go _to_, but now, as Malik moved his mouth down, traced a path with teeth and tongue along his jaw, brushed against short stubble and finally descended upon his neck, moving into the juncture of his shoulder and up again, corded muscle covering his racing pulse. Alta'ir cupped his left hand against the curve of Malik's skull, tan skin against dark hair, the absence of his ring finger forgotten as he threaded his fingers through the man's short hair. Covered as it was, his own hand looked complete; and he moved it down, tracing along the edges of Malik's jaw and the side of his neck, resting his palm there just to feel the man's muscles move as Malik continued to lay assault to the skin of his neck.

There had been a question, Alta'ir remembered, and there was an answer. Not the answer, but a part of it, for Alta'ir thought now of many things, not the least among them the feeling of the man atop him, a weight warm and solid.

"I am wondering," he began, proud of how steady his words were, "how a man with two arms manages to be so easily pinned by a man with one."

Malik smiled at that: Alta'ir could not see the expression but he could feel it tracing against his skin. The one-armed man kissed his neck once more and then lifted his head, shifting his weight slightly, allowing him to move his head forward to meet Alta'ir's gaze squarely.

"A fine question, Alta'ir. However, even though the man with two arms, and thus two hands, may normally have the advantage, when the man with one arm has his one hand wrapped about the other's cock, then the advantage lies where it may." Malik said, smile broad and bordering on wicked, accompanied by a soft pressure on the aforementioned organ, one that left Alta'ir open mouthed, gasping for breath. Malik did not let up the pressure as he took advantage of the other assassin's open mouth, kissing like he fucked, like he fought, with precision and force and power, intuiting the best method of attack. If this had been earlier in their times together, closer to the time of Alta'ir's ever-present arrogance and Malik resentment over the loss of his arm and death of his brother, Alta'ir would have called the kiss punishing, almost, in its intensity. That was before, though, when they were different men.

Still, every attack presents an opportunity to counterattack, and this Alta'ir did, pushing himself upwards into the kiss, biting into Malik's lower lip and using that advantage to press himself forward into the other's mouth, stabbing outwards with his tongue, establishing a rhythm reminiscent of _other_ activities. Malik moaned against him at the battle he'd started, and something in Alta'ir thrilled at the victory implied in the sound. Some things would never stop being a contest.

"And any disadvantage," he said, pressing open-mouthed kisses at the edges of the man's mouth, the sides of his face, "can be turned into an advantage where and when it may."

"True," Malik said, and _moved_, a trail marked by the path of a hot, wet mouth, tracing over his chest now, pausing to hover over a nipple.

"But I'm to blame for leaving you that coherent, I suppose," Malik added, and bit gently, something that streaked Alta'ir's vision with white and made him arch forward, off of the bed they lay upon. Malik's accompanying chuckle was murderous against his skin, as the man continued down, mouth skating over ridges of stomach muscle to nip at the edge of a hipbone before pausing, finally, by his hand which still loosely encircled Alta'ir's cock. Removing his hand from the organ, he placed his forearm across the other's waist, keeping Alta'ir in place.

He would have told Malik, were it not for the slow breaths against his member that robbed him of much, including speech, that such a measure was not truly necessary. He wouldn't have moved. His own hands found themselves in Malik's hair once more, clenching and unclenching, gently. There was trust here, too, for him to open himself to Malik like this, and for Malik to allow the hands of a killer so near his face, his neck.

"Patience, Alta'ir," Malik breathed, the words themselves torture against him, wresting another soft moan from the assassin, the sound long and low. Then, as if belying his words, Malik opened his mouth and took him in, surrounding him with warm, wet heat, the gentle sharpness of teeth and the soft and moving force of his tongue, pressing against the underside of his cock. Alta'ir thrust upwards, a short and uncontrolled motion arrested by the presence of Malik's arm trapping his waist and hips. But because Malik was not kind, certainly, but not cruel, he moved his mouth for Alta'ir, pressure stronger against his cock, moving now against the tip and the head, and it was enough.

And because he was an assassin, Alta'ir was silent when he came.


End file.
